A Good Cop
by LaughingGravy
Summary: "He shrugs off his jacket and hooks it around back of her. It smells of boot polish and coffee and some spicy something that she can't identify."


A Good Cop

She's been taken; Sherlock also, but she has no idea what has happened to him.

A nameless thug bundled her into a dim, musty smelling room.

He had thrown her, away from the door, spinning her and sending her slamming backwards into an old fireplace. The sound in her ears like a bowling ball strike, with fizzles and pops thrown in, and the feeling that her head had been taken off entirely.

Dazed and with the wet ooze of blood creeping to the back of her neck, she had heard the door close behind him and the lock engage.

Then, minutes ago, as she sat, cold and dizzy on the floor of the room, she had heard a disturbance outside; footsteps, several shouts and purposeful bangs.

Time to go maybe….

She climbs unsteadily to her feet, clinging to the edge of an ancient, rusting desk, fixing her eyes on the locked door, ready to make some attempt at escape.

She stumbles forward. Suddenly the door opens right at her. Taken by surprise, she falls back on her butt with an _ooomph!_

The metal desk feels cold behind her, the floor solid under her feet.

Nausea makes a lazy flip-flop somewhere behind her sternum.

She rests her head back and holds onto her knees. Her eyes close.

"Miss Watson-"

She looks up and Toby Gregson is standing there, a little out of breath, his hand still on the doorknob.

She glares, trying to make her eyes say, _is he alright_? His eyes are saying, are _you_ alright?

Angry, she stammers, "Sherlock.. is Sherlock alright?"

"He's outside…"

The anger is gone .. it wasn't even real. But the pain in her head is very real, and she's wondering how to stand, how to get out of there… and there's the captain waiting for her, looking at her oddly… sternly, even, with his weapon drawn.

"Are you hurt?" he says. It's just a question, casually asked. She thinks his voice is soft, that maybe he's whispering.

He doesn't know about the fireplace or the blood dripping across her back.

She answers, "No." She doesn't know why.

All at once the captain's face appears close to hers. He is pulling back his jacket to holster his gun.

"And yet we're still on the ground here..." he says with a wink and there's an odd little smile upon his lips. He's crouched awkwardly in front of her, legs bent and his forearms resting across his knees.

She's aware that this is the cue for her to speak, but nothing happens.

His head moves this way and that, his eyes are looking her up and down, and then at last they settle on her face… her eyes.

And he must see something there, because then he nods once, slowly, and says,

"Your head, right?"

And he _is_ right, isn't he… _come on, Joan, tell him he's right_.

But still no sound escapes her numb lips.

"Can you stand?" he says, very softly now, and the words sound to Joan like they come from far away, and the air between them both is buzzing gently with vibration and static.

She sees him lean forward, feels his warm hand against her cheek and then cool fingers against her neck.

His head turns, she sees his neatly cropped greying hair and then a loud noise, his voice is raised, shouting to someone.

And now he's back to staring… at her, and she realises that she knows almost nothing about him.

He is.. old. He's a cop… a good cop, and he does his job well. People respect him – _she_ respects him. But that's as far as it goes, and she feels sad about that.

The captain says, "I think we'll just wait here… let them come to us." His smile is warmer, kinder than any of his smiles have been before. He shrugs off his jacket and hooks it around back of her. It smells of boot polish and coffee and some spicy something that she can't identify. It instantly warms her.

She sees him pull back his hand and blink slowly at it. He sighs and covers one of her small hands with his own huge one, right there on her knee.

Her eyes are closing again and all of her is chilled now, all of her except that one place where his hand is resting upon hers.

"Is she alright? Watson!" The familiar accented voice breaks into the buzzing silence.

She swallows, opens her eyes minutely;

"Calm down… I'm fine" she says patiently, in a voice papery thin, dragging a smile from somewhere.

At that moment many things happen: A crowd appears in the room, a noisy crowd. Someone takes the pulse at her neck, checks her pressure, lifts an eyelid, calls her name.

But she's no patience for it, deciding that they will find what's wrong soon enough. They'll assess and stabilise her, give her fluids, keep her warm.

She allows herself to slip away into a pleasant twilight, where she's comforted by what's important; the almost constant reassuring chatter of Sherlock asking questions, and the warm, steady weight of that fatherly hand on hers.

oOo

Thanks for reading - just made a couple of changes... lieut. to cap. to be precise! Thanks to 'CharmingNotDarling':)


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